Clever Man
by Ergott
Summary: A series of mostly disconnected stories concerning how John and Sherlock deal with one another. Some slash, some not.
1. Substitution

Clever Man: A series of mostly disconnected stories concerning how John and Sherlock deal with one another. Some slash, some not.

_Substitution_: John wonders at Sherlock's physical nature, and receives approximately zero help from Mycroft. (Rating: K+. Slash if you squint really hard.)

* * *

Sherlock never touched anyone. It was a peculiarity that John had noticed relatively early on in their acquaintance. He reciprocated if someone happened to touch him, shook hands where it was appropriate or otherwise necessary, but he never initiated contact if he could help it. Except with John.

John, he touched at ever opportunity: a guiding hand at his back as they dashed out the door, a leading grab of the wrist while they navigated the back allies of London, a friendly pat as they shambled about the flat, an almost-too-friendly caress as they passed each other on the stairs. And of course John noticed, how could he not? Sherlock was the epitome of a self-contained man, a foreign and dangerous planet locked within a six-foot-something frame of whipcord lean muscles and viciously focused intent. Yet here was this one crack in the armor, this one strange compulsion that John couldn't explain about the other man.

Dr. Watson didn't fancy himself a genius, but it didn't take a genius to figure Sherlock out, patience certainly, and a willingness to accept that he would never fully understand how that frightfully clever mind wrapped itself around crime scenes. He understood the man, though, understood his mood swings, his blunt and tactless social skills, even, to a certain extent, understood how Sherlock's mild sociopathy sometimes made him struggle to make sense of his own emotions, but he didn't understand the touching.

And it drove him mad sometimes because, much like his flatmate latching on to the most insignificant detail, John found he couldn't let it lie. He spent days, weeks even, assessing and reassessing ever touch, trying to figure it out, wishing that he had even a tenth of Sherlock's cleverness so that he could make sense of everything. He might have even carried on that way, ad infinitum, if it hadn't been for Mycroft.

Mycroft was a conundrum himself, his inappropriately facetious tone often obscuring the fact that he was dead serious about whatever he was saying, and John idly wondered if it was just a quirk of the Holmes family that they couldn't outright express what they were really feeling. But Mycroft was easier to deal with by far, and had insights into Sherlock that no other man could, so John was not the least bit disturbed when he found himself in the back of the unremarkable black car once more, heading god-knows-where with Demeter, formerly Anthea.

It was another abandoned paper mill, and John silently wondered at the predictability of that before he was greeted by an unsettlingly banal, "Ah, Doctor Watson, how good of you to come."

He considered Mycroft for a moment. "I wasn't aware I had a choice," he returned blandly. And for all its flippancy, that statement was true: only a fool would think that the impeccably dressed, unassuming man before him was anything but dangerous.

"There is always a choice," was the lofty reply. Mycroft never threatened, but then, he never had to, for the implied consequences were always painfully clear. He could ruin a man just as easily as he could save one.

John gave a short, humorless laugh, and waited for the other man to get on with whatever the subject at hand was to be.

Mycroft eyed him for an uncomfortably long moment but whatever conclusions he reached he kept to himself. "He _has_ had friends before, no matter what Sergeant Donavan has said to you."

John didn't bother asking how the other man had heard that conversation—Mycroft was wired into the whole of London, perhaps even the whole of England. "But?" he supplied, knowing there had to be a but, otherwise he wouldn't be standing in an empty paper mill at three in the morning.

"Outside of a few, fleeting, intimate relations, Sherlock has rarely been so physical," the elder Holmes mused.

"Rarely?" John grabbed onto the word, knowing whatever followed could solve the questions that had been hounding him. "So it _has_ happened before?"

Mycroft flashed a brief, blinding amused smile, and told John something that really _shouldn_'t have surprised him.

* * *

221B Baker Street was silent when John got back, and it left him unsettled. Silences where dangerous in this flat— silences only happened when Sherlock was at his most unpredictable. The acrid smells of burning and decay or the persistent sounds of bubbling and hissing would have been welcome, for at least then he would have known Sherlock was keeping himself occupied. But the silence was relentless and worrying.

John took the stairs carefully, quietly, hoping without merit that the occupants of the sub-sectioned house were so noiseless because they were sleeping.

Sherlock was waiting for him, sitting in the darkened living area with his eyes fixed on the stairway, the skull he had managed to reclaim from Mrs. Hudson resting upside-down in one open palm.

"I suppose he wants a trade," the detective said in place of a greeting.

John stumbled a bit as he sat down in his favorite chair. "Excuse me?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Mycroft," Sherlock hissed with impatience. "He wants the skull back."

"Not that he said," John frowned, puzzling out how this episode fit in with what he'd been told not an hour ago.

The younger man's eyes narrowed. "But it was implied."

"Too much of what your brother really wants is implied; I've stopped bothering to work it out," John sighed.

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, carefully setting the skull on the floor as he assessed his flatmate once more. "What did he tell you?" he demanded.

The doctor's lips quirked in puzzled amusement. "That I've been upgraded from replacing a skull to replacing a stuffed toy from your childhood."

Slowly, Sherlock leaned back, idly flicking the nearest lamp on as he considered the man opposite him. "The skull was Mycroft's," he said at length, "part of an anatomy set that mother had gotten him before he began to express an interest in politics." His lips quirked into the half-smile that he usually reserved for the moments when John managed to surprise him. "I don't know what it was about the skull that fascinated me, but it held my attention so well that I decided to take it. Mycroft, of course, took exception to this and decided to retaliate."

John could see where this was going. "He took something of yours."

"A stuffed rabbit that I was alarmingly attached to," the detective nodded. "If the stories are to be believed, I took it absolutely everywhere with me. In some ways, I suppose I ought to thank Mycroft for curing me of that compulsion." He paused, taking in his flatmate's expression. "What?"

And suddenly, John realized that he'd been frowning, his brow furrowed as he stared at the younger man. "It's just hard to picture you carrying around a stuffed rabbit, is all," he shrugged. Which was true, in the sense that John couldn't picture Sherlock ever being any younger than the moment they had first met; thinking of Sherlock as a teenager was impossible and as a child was outright laughable. Of course, he knew that the man had to have gone through those stages of development, but he also knew that the process couldn't have resembled anything approaching normal, as Sherlock simply didn't _do_ normal.

"I was five," the younger man flashed an all too brief frown of confusion. "In any case, it seems as though the behavior was not so gone as I had thought."

"So Mycroft was right?" the doctor pressed—it was so rare for him to get any insight into his eccentric flatmate; the opportunity to press and pry could not be wasted. "You're admitting to it?"

Sherlock raised a dark brow, his lips curled in fond mockery. "There's no sense in denying what's plain for everyone to see, John." He shrugged carefully, his eyes narrowing as he pondered out loud. "I've remained emotionally and physically aloof for most of my life, aside from a short period in my childhood when such behavior would have been developmentally expected. Based on the assumption that I focused all of my desire for acceptance and physical contact on that one toy, Mycroft could have interrupted the natural dissipation of that phase by taking my rabbit, cutting my outlet for that behavior off abruptly while still leaving behind the dormant desire to resume said behavior." His gaze had turned inward by now, speculation dancing through his pale eyes, but after only a moment or two he refocused on John. "Does it bother you?" he asked lowly.

"That you touch me?" John shook his head. "No."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed once more. "But you _are_ bothered," he concluded.

"I crave physical contact as I've had precious little of it since returning from the war, so it suits me just fine if you want to touch," the smaller man explained levelly. "What bothers me, Sherlock, is that I'm a substitute."

"I don't understand," the detective replied in quiet frustration.

John laughed in a tone of resignation that was becoming increasingly familiar. "And the hell of it is that you really don't, do you? All that cleverness, and yet this basic little thing eludes you."

The younger man frowned, fidgeting in his seat as though he was restraining himself from shaking the answers out of his flatmate. "John?"

John shook his head. There was a lot about the subtleties of human interaction and emotional desires that Sherlock simply didn't understand, but desperately needed to learn. "You'll get no help from me this time, Sherlock," he said, standing to leave. "You could figure this one out on your own if you really wanted to."

The detective grabbed him before he could go, herding him back into his chair. "You can't leave it there," Sherlock snapped, anger tinging his voice. "I have to know!"

Silence reigned for several minutes as the doctor decided whether attempting to leave again had any merit, but the idea was quickly discarded by the look in Sherlock's eyes. That pale gaze was cutting through John, fixing him with a stare that was usually reserved for only the most maddening riddles. It was strange really, to see such an observant man so utterly confused by a matter that most people understood instinctively. "You can tell me a person's sexuality in an instant, as well who they're most likely to hook up with, but when it comes to emotion, you're truly blind, aren't you?" John sighed, wondering, not for the first time, how his flatmate's world could be so black and white.

Sherlock's long legs folded up onto his chair, until he was sitting like an anxious child, bunched and jittering. "Emotions are illogical and fleeting, they change from instant to instant and you have no way of definitively verifying them," he explained carefully. "You can't touch an emotion, you can't taste it and, though you can witness the effects of a mood, you certainly can't see it." He shrugged, his pale eyes darting over the doctor's seated figure. "Why should I waste my time on such ephemera?"

"The same could be said of music, yet you indulge in that at every opportunity," John reminded him. "Besides, you guess at my mood all the time. What makes this different?"

Sherlock's jaw tensed, and a rebuttal clearly flitted through his eyes, but he merely shook his head.

The smaller man sighed. How was he meant to explain this? How was he supposed to convey emotions to someone who considered them foreign and unnecessary? "Take my hand," he instructed, holding his whole arm forward as his flatmate leaned closer. Hesitantly, Sherlock's spidery fingers curled around his wrist, the pale thumb and index finger wrapping around his own thumb. "Now tell me what I'm feeling," he demanded.

"Frustration," was the immediate answer.

John nodded, but pressed, "How do you know?"

"The pulse at the base of your thumb is quickened, but not enough to be anger or desire," Sherlock analyzed in his typically quick fashion. His gaze lowered to their hands, then met John's eyes, something calculating creeping over the pale face. "Why does it bother you to be a substitute?" he asked suddenly, his grip tightening to prevent escape. "Your pulse just stuttered—you don't want to answer."

John laughed, despite himself. "In your own strange way, you understand emotion better than you think, Sherlock," he remarked. "You just need someone to help you translate all your raw data into something human."

"And?" the detective pressed, pulling himself closer.

If there was one thing John truly hated about living with such a clever man, it was that it was always noticed when questions were left unanswered. "And it bothers me because you're my friend—maybe my _only_ friend at the moment—and I'm just a substitute." He studied the other man and decided to swallow his pride. "I want you to touch me because it's really _me_ you want to touch, not some long lost stuffed toy."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "You're jealous?"

"In a sense," the doctor shrugged. "Mostly, though, I'm just a little bruised and very unsure of myself socially."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock snorted, and maybe it was considering that John had always been the more personable of the two.

But John merely shook his head again. "The war hurt me in more ways than one, Sherlock. When I came back I felt like I couldn't talk to anyone, didn't know how to communicate with normal people in normal ways; then I met you, and you blasted through all of that because _you_ didn't really know how to communicate either." His eyes searched Sherlock's, unsure if the other man understood him. "We're a pair, you and I; dysfunctional by ourselves, but able to work together in a mutually beneficial way."

Sherlock considered him for so long that it made John nervous. "I find it difficult to express myself beyond general disdain and mockery," he finally said, "so think about this, John: why would I bother to touch you at all if I didn't think of you as somehow _apart_ from others?" He got out of his chair and crouched over the smaller man, pulling on the John's hand until they were practically chest-to-chest. "The rabbit was a substitution," he bent his head low and whispered into the other man's ear. "_You_'re the real thing."

* * *

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Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and I am not making any money off this story.


	2. About Face

_About Face_: John didn't think it was possible but, somehow, staying home while he was sick was so much worse than going to the hospital. But then, really, what did he expect with a flatmate like Sherlock? (Rating: T.)

* * *

It was the staring that unnerved him. Not that Sherlock didn't usually stare, but this was different somehow. This stare was glinted and contemplative and it made John's skin crawl. His decision to ignore it lasted all of a day before he snapped.

"What?" he growled at his flatmate, sincerely hoping this wasn't another bout of boredom because he was fairly certain the house wouldn't survive it.

Sherlock stood from his sofa and approached John's armchair. "Are you feeling all right?" he asked without preamble, his pale gaze piercing.

The question was maddening because, in fact, no, he didn't feel all right. For two days now he'd had a suspicious tickle at the back of his throat, there was a pressure at his temples that was steadily getting tighter and tighter, and any hour now he expected to feel the lightheaded chill that indicated a fever. But he wouldn't admit to it- the habit was a strange and stubborn holdover from his teenage years- especially not to someone like Sherlock, who probably already knew anyway.

"I'm fine," he muttered, picking up the morning paper as a means of deflection.

But Sherlock was neither convinced nor put off. His gaze sharpened and he glared at the newspaper like the feeble barrier it was. "There's no sense in lying to me, John; you really should know better." He shook his head in disgust while grabbing the paper and throwing it to floor. "You're not fine." Two thin fingers unerringly found their way to the pulse at John's throat. "Or, at least, you won't be in a few hours."

John batted his flatmate away. "Who's the doctor here?" he snapped, knowing full well the other man was right.

Sherlock gave him a pointed look and sighed. It was a very put upon sound that had John grinding his teeth. "Very well," the detective replied heavily, "I'm going out then. I'll be back in a couple of hours to make sure you haven't blacked out."

"_I'm fine_," John insisted angrily, but Sherlock was already halfway down the stairs and probably laughing at him.

* * *

John's first thought was that he didn't remember going to sleep, but he must have, otherwise this wouldn't be his _first_ thought. His second, third, and fourth thoughts were along the lines of, 'Definitely sick,' 'I haven't felt this awful since Afghanistan,' and 'Please God, just kill me.' By the time he got to his fifth thought he was somewhat more lucid and beginning to realize that he was laid out on his bed while Sherlock loomed over him like some sort of deranged avenging angel.

The part of him that always remained the cool and calm army doctor took stock- high temperature, rapid sweating that would lead to dehydration, pounding headache, sore joints- but the part of him that was already delirious from a rising fever asked, "What happened?" even though he knew the answer perfectly well.

Sherlock gave him a look that he was beginning to identify as, 'You're a simpleton.' "Exactly what I said would happen," he replied, pulling the duvet up. "You blacked out. I found you face-down on the kitchen floor."

"And you carried me up to my room?" John asked disbelievingly. It seemed so out of character for his flatmate to do anything so considerate- then again, perhaps it wasn't; Sherlock had, in a way, cured his limp, after all.

The detective raised a dark brow. "I could take you back, if you prefer," he offered sarcastically.

"Sorry," John replied with a sigh, hoping he hadn't offended the man. "I don't handle sickness well."

Sherlock gave a careless shrug, "No one does." He headed for the door, tossing over his shoulder, "I suppose you ought to rest. Shout if there's an emergency."

* * *

The next time John woke up, it was to a sharp pain in his arm. He wanted to swat at the irritant, but his limbs felt weighted and it was a struggle just to open his eyes.

It was Sherlock again, only this time he was expertly inserting a catheter into his flatmate's arm. "You've been in and out of consciousness and general coherency for hours, sweating all the while," he said lowly when he noticed John was awake and partially lucid. "You're dehydrated and this is the easiest way of getting fluids back into your body." By the time he finished his statement, he had the doctor on a steady IV drip.

For a dark moment, John wondered at where the detective had gotten the equipment and why his explanation sounded so much like an argument. "Seems a bit extreme," he replied, coughing at the roughness of his throat. "Do you really think this is necessary? I mean, I appreciate your help, but maybe you should just let me be."

Sherlock fiddled with the IV stand for a moment, then pressed on the doctor's shoulder to get him to lay flat on his back, a roll of medical tape already in his hands so that he could cover the catheter. "Your temperature is quickly reaching a point that could result in brain damage, John; if I do nothing, you could lose what little cognitive functions you have."

How very like the man to throw insults into what was otherwise excellent bedside manner. "Take me to the hospital, then," John grumbled, although his heart wasn't really in it. He would be just as helpless there as he was here, although chances were good that he'd be able to bully his nurses better.

"Where you'll encounter potentially life-threatening diseases that your _already_ compromised immune system can't handle?" Sherlock frowned, a disappointed look in his eyes. "Sheer idiocy. You're staying right here."

"Sherlock, I really must protest," John complained, wishing he could move, wishing he didn't really need this help.

"As I'm sure you will quite often" the detective drawled. "Generally speaking, doctors tend to make the worst patients." He moved away after a moment, surveying his reluctant charge.

"I could be contagious!" the doctor pressed, hoping to get the other man away so that he could suffer alone. He hated being sick in front of an audience; hated others witnessing his vulnerability.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I will endeavor to be as meticulous as possible then. Happy?"

"Not by a long-shot," John growled, his breath coming fast as the short conversation began to take its toll on his energy.

"I don't know why you're complaining," Sherlock observed in his usual arrogant tone. "You should be honored to have the world's only consulting detective on your case."

John coughed out a painful laugh. "It's the average fatality rate of your cases that worries me."

"I hardly think your flu is murderous, John." Sherlock settled himself into a chair that had been moved into the room, folding his hands into his lap as he sat. "Besides, you'll be under constant surveillance."

"Lucky me," he replied, briefly dreaming of throwing the other man out.

Sherlock watched him for a moment, his ice-colored eyes taking in John's every cough, shiver, and wince. "Hm," he hummed in a curious tone.

"What?" the doctor asked, his voice wearing thin and his thoughts already flying apart.

"I didn't think it was possible," Sherlock mused as John's world went black, "but you're even surlier when you're ill."

* * *

John floated in and out of reality for who knew how long- the fever had gone to his brain and his understanding of time was completely shot. He had a suspicion that it had been at least a day and night though, because he remembered falling asleep to the afternoon sun and waking up at some point to a midnight moon.

And all the while, Sherlock never left his side. Every time John managed to claw his way to consciousness, the younger man was there, adjusting his IV or trying to coax him into eating. In his brief flashes of lucidity, John couldn't help but admire his flatmate, yet at the same time he worried. Sherlock was used to going days without eating or sleeping and got along just fine, but now he seemed paler and pinched, and the doctor in him was certain that the other man was succumbing to sickness.

It cost him dearly to speak, but John had to make sure Sherlock was taking care of himself as well.

But Sherlock just waived the questions away with his typical impatience. And that's when John saw it- a concern so deep and frantic that it bordered on hysterical. The great Sherlock Holmes was afraid. John wondered at that as he fought off the edges of delirium. Sherlock's social graces were non-existent but he wasn't unfeeling, and if something had that dizzying intellect frightened then John knew things were bad and about to get worse.

Perhaps it was that very frame of mind that caused all hell to break loose. They were just fever dreams, John knew that, and yet he was still terrified. He'd always been prone to horrific nightmares and, honestly, who even knew what sort of medications Sherlock might be pumping into him.

He was in his childhood home, only it couldn't be, because he could clearly see the streets of London outside the windows. Suddenly the world tilted and all the walls were painted in blood and he didn't know how but, somehow, John _knew_ it was his family's blood. He started screaming, but the sounds of London overcame him, and just when he thought he was going to go mad, the world changed.

It was his Uni, pristine and white, and the blood of his professors was flowing like a waterfall down the great front steps as the blood of his friends flooded the lawn.

Now it was St. Bart's, and there was so much blood that it was gushing out the windows.

Now it was Harry's flat, and…

And, piece by piece, he began to lose himself in those flashing nightmares, began to forget about the man called John Watson as he was bathed in blood, until all that was left was the fear and the torment.

Time passed, erratic and unpredictable, and he shouted as though it might ease his pain- a long and loud screaming that burned his throat and echoed painfully in his ears. His voice was nearly spent by the time the world stabilized around him. Yet, somehow, this unchanging world was worse; it filled him with a visceral fear that might have made sense if he could remember who he was.

A desert stretched out before him, scrubby mountains rising and falling in the distance. The sun pounded into him unforgivingly, yet promised a bitterly cold evening in its wake. It might have been tolerable, picturesque even, if it hadn't been for the battle raging on around him.

"Afghanistan," the word popped into his head just as a bullet tore into his right shoulder. He cried out as the momentum of the shot carried him to the ground, yelled in pain and fury as the blazing hot scrap of metal threatened to break him.

From far away came a voice that was low and soothing. "It's all right, John."

"I've been shot," he said in shock, his eyes wheeling around to the men who were depending on him, to the friends and fellow soldiers whose lives hinged upon his ability to perform his duties.

"I'm right here," the voice told him and, even though it didn't really make sense, it was a comfort.

But people were dying all around him, crying out his name in desperate pleas for aid. He wanted to, _god how he wanted to_, but he couldn't get his body to cooperate, couldn't ignore the fiery pain that was erupting in his shoulder. "Help them!" he begged.

"You're going to be fine," the voice said firmly, but that wasn't what he wanted to hear, wasn't at all what he had asked for.

"They're dying!" he shouted, tears of frustration and helplessness escaping him as he was forced to watch the carnage of battle unfold.

A phantom hand pressed itself to his forehead, and the voice dropped even lower as it calmly told him, "Your fever's breaking; the dreams will pass."

Dreaming? He latched onto that thought like a drowning man- he was _dreaming_. He wasn't laying prone in the middle of a battlefield, because that had already happened. These were just memories of sand and blood; they were the pains and fears that festered in his mind like an infected wound. But no matter how painful they felt, they were _just_ memories- he wasn't that person anymore, and he no longer lived that life.

The world around him faded for the final time, the retort of gunfire and the blazing sun receding until there was nothing but blackness. For a minute, he panicked, thinking himself alone, but the hand was still pressed to his forehead, so the voice had to be there. Quietly, tentatively, he gave a broken whisper to the darkness, "Don't leave me." He couldn't remember who the gentle voice belonged to, but he knew he couldn't bear it if they abandoned him to this madness.

"Never," came the unshakeable promise.

* * *

He never fully regained consciousness after that, but he never fell back into the nightmares either. Occasionally, the voice spoke to him, but the instances were becoming infrequent and the tone was turning gravelly. Once or twice he felt a shivering body pressed up against him, and on an instinctual level he knew that was bad, knew it should worry him. But without the voice to coax him to reality he drifted, his thoughts simply coming and going.

"Oh my god," someone breathed. And that got his attention because it was another voice he knew but couldn't place. He wanted to open his eyes and find out who it was, but couldn't; not a single part of his body was responding.

"Lestrade, he's in here!" Another familiar voice, shouting a familiar name. "Come quick!"

"Sherlock,"a rough voice he was assuming was the Lestrade that had been called for started, but then there was a disbelieving pause, as though they couldn't quite find the right words. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" Then a shouted, "Someone call an ambulance!"

There was a commotion that he couldn't quite understand after that, a fleshy sounding thud followed by a sharp retort. The first voice spoke again- the voice that had guided him through his nightmares- but he was snarling now and the words weren't making sense anymore.

* * *

John immediately flew into a panic when the first sensation that greeted him was the high-pitched beeping of a heart monitor. The beeping increased to keep steady with his pulse, so it was hooked up to him, then. That wasn't a comforting conclusion. Carefully, he opened his eyes, but the room was so bright and unfamiliar that it had him groaning in pain.

"Relax," someone said as the heart monitor's pace ratcheted up a notch.

John turned his head to the visitor, daring to open an eye. Blearily, he could just make out the familiar face of Lestrade. Seeing the DI triggered something deep in his mind, a ghostly memory of a conversation that had been irrevocably blurred by fever.

"How are you?" Lestrade asked, moving from his seat by the door to stand near the hospital bed.

John considered then question. His eyes felt like they had been boiled in his skull, his head was on fire, and every inch of him felt like it had been worked over with a tire iron. "Alive," he croaked.

The DI gave a short laugh because they both knew that, sometimes, 'alive' was the best you could ask for.

"What happened?" John asked after a moment, hating that he didn't know.

"You and and Sherlock were both rushed in for emergency attention, and your doctors are relieved to report that you'll both survive," Lestrade replied with a fond smile. "And before you ask, your lunatic of a flatmate is in the next room over, making a frighteningly fast recovery."

"I can't thank you enough," John sighed. His immediate memories were sketchy, at best- the last thing he remembered clearly, completely, was his flatmate's expertise with a catheter- but some part of him was positive that the Yarders had saved his and Sherlock's lives. "If there's anything I can do-"

"He punched me," Lestrade reported bemusedly, interrupting John. "Sherlock could barely stand, he was so sick, and yet the minute I tried to get closer to you, he punched me square in the jaw and then proceeded to attack the paramedics once they arrived." He absently rubbed at his stubble-covered jaw and gave the other man a humorless smile. "They had to sedate him, like an animal, just so that we could get the both of you here."

John's jaw fell slack for moment. "I'm sorry?"

"Once he regained consciousness he started barraging The Yard and the hospital's Board of Trustees with nasty texts," the DI continued mercilessly. "In fact, he became so difficult that we had to call for his brother."

John frankly knew very little about Mycroft, but he understood the dynamic between the two brothers. Sherlock would be livid and twice as difficult if Mycroft had been summoned. "God, I'm so sorry," he breathed, although it wasn't really his fault.

Lestrade nodded and considered him for a moment. "Do you want know how you can really thank me, Doctor Watson?"

"Whatever it is, I'll do it," John offered immediately. He knew he wasn't going to like whatever was about to be said, but there was a nagging guilt pulsing at the back of his mind. Living with Sherlock made him feel somewhat responsible for the younger man, especially when his behavior was at its worst. "I promise."

"_Never get sick again_," Lestrade replied seriously. "The world can barely handle Sherlock Holmes as he is, never mind when he's in a half-delirious fit of domestic fervor. He's terrifying when he's actually being human."

* * *

A/N: There will probably be an 'About Face, Part Two' from Sherlock's point of view, but we'll see if I can really get into his head or not.

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Disclaimer: Totally not mine.


	3. About Face, Part Two

_About Face, Part Two_: Sherlock struggles between the mundane and the necessary, all while trying to ignore his mounting emotions as he is forced to care for John. Takes place during the exact same time-frame (more or less) as the first _About Face_. (Rated: T; slightly heavier than the previous _About Face_.)

* * *

They were in a lull right now, stuck in the horrible stillness that came between cases. Sherlock thought he would go out of his mind with boredom and merely felt patronized when John suggested he play a game. Yet the suggestion took hold, and he found himself making a game of studying his flatmate.

John was a curious man, beaten down by life and circumstance until he was little more than wounded pride and regret, yet there was still vitality in that weary body. Perhaps that was what attracted Sherlock, the fact that John seemed so ready for life to end, but every time a case landed in their laps the older man _came_ _alive_. It was as though some switch flicked in John's brain and he became a different person. The underlying personality could never be changed though; John was inordinately defensive, but intensely loyal. And he supposed in an abstract way, if such things mattered, John was a handsome man, with his trim body and greying hair; hardly society's ideal of beauty, but the man never wanted for feminine company.

He was an excellent flatmate, too. Sherlock knew he was difficult to live with, knew it took an uncommon amount of patience to deal with his eccentricities. John did all that and more, and though he complained all the while he was very good natured about it. In fact, John often went completely out of his way to facilitate some of Sherlock's less dangerous habits, and-

His thoughts were derailed by a poorly smothered cough; it was deep and congested, an unmistakable warning of deteriorating health. John looked upset at the involuntary action, as though his body had somehow betrayed him in that moment. Sherlock understood the feeling all too well; there was nothing so irritating as discovering that one _did_ in fact have limits, and that the body could only take so much abuse before it broke.

His boredom ebbed as he studied his flatmate with an attention for _different_ details. Sherlock had never seen the patterns John went through when he was sick- this was a learning opportunity. For several hours, he amused himself by listing the possible illnesses that John could have- alphabetical from the most likely to the least likely then geographically, based on where he could have contracted it- before the implications finally sank in. Through an unspoken agreement, John had taken over management of the mundane side of 221B Baker Street; if John fell ill, there was no one domestically prepared to care for him, which left the burden on Sherlock. Unless…

He tracked Mrs. Hudson to her favorite shop, but by the time she noticed him, he was already turning away. The woman was a caring old lady, and that was just the trouble- she was elderly. Exposing her to whatever was plaguing John would be dangerous; her body wasn't quite as capable of fighting off infection like the two younger men could, and if their landlady died of a fever they would be out of a home. So the burden still rested on Sherlock.

He did not enter into that realization gracefully. In fact, the only thing that cheered him up was the thought that perhaps John would be able to care for himself; he was a doctor, after all. But the minute Sherlock arrived home to find his flatmate passed out on the kitchen floor, he knew he'd miscalculated. This was not going to be a simple touch of cold that the older man could push his way through; it was going to be a disaster.

John was face-down on the floor, a broken plate scattered about him from when he'd involuntarily tried to break his fall. He was free of cuts though, which was blessing; Sherlock would have hated the complication of treating multiple ailments.

The detective approached the scene carefully, some distant part of him disturbed that his prone flatmate looked so much like the corpses he was used to dealing with. Suppressing an unnecessary shiver, Sherlock set about cleaning up the broken shards of crockery before turning his attention to the man on the floor.

John was throwing off heat like a furnace and shivering as though he were standing naked in the Arctic. His clothes were plastered to him by an advancing sweat, his breathing was turning erratic, and when Sherlock lifted an eyelid he could see that the eyes were glassy and the pupils were alarmingly dilated. Given all that, it was unlikely that the man would be anywhere near steady on his feet, so he would have to be carried to his room.

Sherlock was not unaccustomed to physical contact nor was he outright opposed to it, but he _was_ hesitant to touch the other man. The last thing either of them needed was for Sherlock to get sick as well; then again, seeing as they lived in such close contact with each other, probability was leaning toward the chance that he already had it and just wasn't showing symptoms yet. And, even if he didn't, he could just as easily contract the illness from anything John had touched in the last few days- which was more or less the whole of their flat- so it was, in all truth, fairly inevitable unless he removed himself from the situation.

The idea had merit; he could wander off for a few days and leave John in the care of the local hospital, only… Only, were the doctors there any less incompetent than Scotland Yard? What if they misdiagnosed John or exposed him to diseases he did not have the strength to fight? They would kill the man in a matter of hours. No, the only way to be absolutely certain that John recovered as he should would be for Sherlock to take charge of his treatment.

With a resigned sigh, the detective lifted his flatmate into his arms. John was surprisingly heavy for a man of his stature, but then Sherlock wasn't in the habit of lifting people. The journey to John's upstairs bedroom was painstakingly slow, as the stairs were narrow and it was difficult not to jostle his unconscious flatmate. Still, they made it to the room in hardly any time at all.

Sherlock rarely respected the personal boundaries of others', least of all John's, but he had to admit that this was the first time he'd been in the other man's room- mostly because he just couldn't be bothered to take the stairs- but what he found didn't really surprise him. The room was bare, no photographs or pictures, no stray debris littering the floor; there _was_ a pile of books in the corner of the room but it had been neatly placed into short stacks. In fact, the room would have been downright empty if not for the furniture. Not that there was an overabundance of that either, but the wardrobe, nightstand, and bed at least made it look as though the room was lived in. As Sherlock laid John on his bed and fussed with the immaculate sheets he was struck by the desire to just ruin the hell out of his flatmate's room.

But the thought was fleeting and unimportant and John was opening his eyes so there wasn't really any time.

* * *

He had left John alone which, in retrospect, had been a very bad idea. By the time he remembered to come back, the doctor had been delirious. For the most part, Sherlock had only felt hassled by the turn of events, but that all changed with John's fever spiking. In that moment, he began to feel the unfamiliar pangs of fear.

He was used to lives depending upon him, as they so often did, but he was not used to caring about that fact. People came and went, death was a constant that waited for every man, so what did it matter if one died young, 'before his time'? Death was an inevitability, therefore the timing was inconsequential. Or rather, that's how Sherlock usually felt about it, but when it came to John he found that the theorem no longer applied. Certainly, John would die one day, but Sherlock was determined to push that day back for as long as possible.

"I won't allow it," the detective said firmly, checking his flatmate's pulse.

John opened his eyes, but they were glassy and blank- awake but no where near lucid. "What?" the word came out a rough croak, but it didn't seem so painful that speaking would be a problem.

Sherlock's hand moved behind John's ear, then over his forehead and cheek. The fever was climbing to dangerous levels, the sort that damaged a man's brain in a matter of hours. "I forbid you to die," he replied conversationally.

John stared at him for a long moment, as though he couldn't quite figure out what was being said, then finally asked, "Why's that, then?"

Sherlock paused, surprised. _Why_? It was a good question. Why did he care about John and not the Yarders, or the people he worked for, or even his own brother? What made the weary ex-soldier irreplaceable? "The flat would be empty without you," Sherlock began to list, pursuing the train of thought. What else? "I'd have to go back to talking to the skull." Was that all? "Mrs. Hudson would never leave me be." There had to be more. "And," he paused, finally striking at the heart of the matter. "And if you were dead who would be there to tell me, 'Not good'?"

The man in question gave him a puzzled look. "Is that all? It hardly seems important."

Sherlock shook his dark head, his eyes narrowing as he explained, "I need you, John, you're the social filter that allows me to interact with the world. Through you, I understand people better and they understand me better. I don't think you realize how much of an accomplishment that really is."

John coughed out a laugh. "How'd you get along before me?"

"By being invaluable," the detective replied. "But that's not the same as being liked or wanted."

John snorted and gave him a look.

"Fine," he sighed in exasperation, "tolerated and necessary. But the fact remains that Lestrade is less hesitant to ask for my help now that you're with me."

It was strange, but by now John was staring fixedly at the ceiling, clearly seeing nothing and yet rapt in his attention. "You're a strange man, Sherlock Holmes," he said, his voice losing strength.

Sherlock ignored the statement, more concerned with the behavior. "Your fever has me worried," he told the other man plainly, "and you're sweating far too much fluid out of your body- I'm going to start you on an IV drip."

"Take me to the hospital," John never broke his gaze from the ceiling, but his voice took on the low authoritative tone that he only used when he was recalling his medical or military training. "You don't have the resources here to deal with this."

The detective shook his head. Leaving was out of the question; John was too vulnerable for that, in his opinion.

"Sherlock," his gaze finally moved, but it wasn't fully lucid yet, "this is going to get far worse before it gets better. Are you prepared to deal with that?"

The trouble was, for once in his life, he honestly didn't know.

* * *

John fell in and out of consciousness as the hours passed, but even when he was awake he wasn't always aware, and those lapses in memory worried Sherlock. That was a common state of affairs now, being worried; he seemed to do little else. It was maddening because he had no outlet to relieve himself of his anxieties. He felt perversely helpless in the face of John's illness. The fever lowered and raised itself at seeming random, and there was little Sherlock could do other than check the IV, change John's clothes and bedding when they had gotten too saturated, and try to get some basic foods into the other man.

A night and a day passed and Sherlock only left John's side when it was absolutely necessary, forgoing food and sleep as he always did when he was trying to focus. Usually his body adapted to the lack of care, but the hunger pains turned vicious and a bone-deep weariness was creeping up on him. He'd already suspected that he was sick, so when the fever arrived it wasn't exactly a surprise, but it was certainly unwelcome.

Now came the true dilemma. Did it make more sense to take care of himself, or to continue caring for John? Sherlock sat in his commandeered chair as he contemplated the situation, aimlessly flipping through a book and keeping a trained eye on his flatmate.

John roused from a dream, his eyes snapping open. He gazed about himself for a time, the fevered light in his eyes a good indication that he would not remember this, come convalescence. "Would you have really taken the pill if I hadn't shot that cabby?" he asked Sherlock, finally focusing.

Sherlock shrugged, feigning interest in his book. He didn't want to talk about the cabby. "I suppose so," he answered shortly.

"Why?" his flatmate pressed. "You're clever and you know it, so why do you have to prove yourself?"

Sherlock frowned. Was that how everyone interpreted his actions? "It wasn't a matter of proving myself; it was a matter of finding the truth," he explained, still hiding behind his book. "You see, John, I'm a realist, and reality is based entirely upon one's perception of truth. Truth, in turn, is only defined by testing limits. I'll never know whether I chose the right pill or not; I'll always have this small doubt about the sequence of events because I did not follow that one detail to its end."

John nodded then, at complete random, responded with, "Do you purposefully shun people, or does it just come naturally?"

He would never admit it, but that actually stung a bit. In his opinion, it was more a matter of people shunning him than the other way around. "It's difficult to 'fit in' when you think differently from everyone."

"You could make friends if you wanted to," the doctor pointed out in a curious tone.

Sherlock smothered a sneer. "Then perhaps I simply don't want to." He flipped past a few pages, but they may as well have been blank for all he saw of them.

"Are you sure?" John teased. "What if I asked you to be my friend?"

"It hardly counts," the detective replied confusedly. "We're _already_ friends."

This seemed to stump the other man. "Why is that?"

There it was again, a _why_ that he had to explore. "Aside from the fact that we've chosen to live together as peacefully as possible, we share a symbiotic relationship- you're good for my ego and I'm good for your sense of purpose."

"Are you getting sick?" the question was hard, fast, and completely irrelevant.

Sherlock was tired, sore, and fed up with jumping conversations. "_Are you really that delirious that you can't stay on topic?_" he snapped, throwing his book down.

"Are you getting sick?" John pressed sternly. "I need to know, Sherlock, because I'm a doctor."

The detective frowned. "What difference does _that_ make?"

"It makes me responsible for the well-being of those around me, regardless of whether I'm ill or not," John replied, oddly coherent considering the fever was plain to see in his eyes. "If you're sick, then I have a duty to make sure you're being taken care of."

And there was the heart of the matter, the thought that he'd been led away from. If both of them were ill, then who took care of whom? It made sense that John should be in charge, as he had the more complete medical training, but he was completely incapacitated, so it was out of the question. They could take care of themselves but, again, John would be unable. Barring outside help, the only option left was for Sherlock, who was so far in much better condition, to keep caring for his flatmate as he had been. "You're not in a position to be making demands, John, and you know I wouldn't be taking care of you if it were not necessary," he told the doctor firmly, hoping to stem off any arguments. "So for once- and you will not hear me say this often, so make note of it- I'm asking you to put aside your concerns for me."

That was the end of the conversation, but it was only the beginning of the fight. Going into to things, Sherlock never would have guessed that his decision was akin to declaring war against himself.

* * *

Sherlock's perception of time blurred and he grew lethargic as his own fever began to climb. He'd never felt so tired and beaten up in his life, not even at the close of some of his longest cases. But he pressed on, pushed himself to new levels because John was counting on him. What did it matter if the detective felt dead weary and completely glazed over by fever? John- who'd fallen into a fitful sleep that he had not once woken up from- was clearly the more vulnerable of the two; he couldn't take care of himself. He _needed_ Sherlock.

Idly, Sherlock began to wonder if this was what bravery felt like- if this was honor in the face of duty- but the train of thought was abruptly cut off when John began screaming. They were screams such as Sherlock had never heard: long, low, and terrified; not the scream of someone facing death, but a scream of torture, of seeing death but not being granted the peace it offered.

For the briefest moment Sherlock panicked, unsure of what to do. He wanted to wake John, but propelling that fevered mind from dreams to reality could be disastrous, maybe even hurtful to the other man. He'd all but made up his mind when a single word escaped John's lips.

"Afghanistan," he whispered, sounding both surprised and pained.

John was reliving the war. Sherlock had never pried about the other man's experiences in the army but, then, he'd never really had to. The events of Afghanistan had been written all over John for everyone to see. And if that wasn't enough, there were the nightmares. It had happened several times since the doctor had moved into 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had heard the quiet sobbing in the dead of night, and it never failed to make him react- he never spoke to John about it, but he always made sure to find an engaging case for the morning after a nightmare. In his own way, Sherlock had always done his best to take John's mind off the past. He could do no differently now, fever or not.

Sherlock shook his shoulder carefully. "It's all right, John," he said in a calm, measured voice.

But John didn't seem to notice. "I've been shot," he cried, panic and pain lacing his scream-roughened voice.

"I'm right here," Sherlock insisted, hoping, in some way, that John would recognize his voice, would connect it to a time that had nothing to do with the war.

It was no good. John thrashed and whimpered, trapped in his own mind. "Help them!" he begged.

Sherlock paused. Perhaps it was the fever clouding his judgement, but he'd expected a 'me' there. John had been shot, after all, so it wasn't out of the question to cry for attention; yet the attention he'd wanted had been for others. Could John truly be that selfless in the face of suffering? It was something alien, yet oddly comforting about the other man. "You're going to be fine," he said at length, not sure what other assurances he could give. The soldiers John pictured were dead and gone; there was no one to help.

It wasn't in the least comforting to the doctor. Immediately, tears began to fall from behind his closed eyes. "They're dying!" he shouted, desperation clear.

Sherlock was shaken and at a complete loss. John was in extreme pain, but it was all emotionally driven, the pain of horrible memories. What could be done for that? It was like treating a phantom wound- there was no hurt to cure, and yet the pain lingered on.

Seldom in his life had Sherlock ever felt at such a loss, seldom had he ever felt so afraid that, for once, his best was not good enough. He laid his hand across the other man's forehead, more to reassure himself than John. "Your fever's breaking," he offered, knowing it wasn't enough, "the dreams will pass."

John hissed in a breath and his brow furrowed, but he seemed to calm at these words. Emotions passed over his sleeping face: understanding, relief, then panic once more. "Don't leave me," he insisted desperately- only this was a different desperation than before, and the detective couldn't quite place it.

"Never," he promised. It was what John needed to hear, and it was completely true. Sherlock had never bothered to develop friendships before, but one had sprung between him and John almost instinctively, and he wouldn't surrender it for anything. Sherlock was certain John hadn't realized it yet, but he was quite stuck with the detective now.

* * *

Sherlock had trouble admitting that the situation was slipping from his control, but the fact still remained. He wasn't quite as ill as his flatmate, but the fever was starting to make him shake, sometimes uncontrollably, and his voice had roughened to the point of being completely useless. The loss speech he could deal with, but the shaking was horrible- it made it even more difficult to perform tasks that he was already having trouble focusing on. And the coldness! Dear god, he'd never felt anything like it, and not even the warmth of his coat or pressing up against the heat that John threw off helped.

Sherlock tried his best, but everything seemed to be spiraling away from him- his own fever was robbing him of functionality, John had not woken up since his dreams of Afghanistan- and all at once, outside help seemed necessary, unreachable, and still completely intolerable.

So it dictated that fate- if he had believed in something so fanciful as fate- sent help his way. One of the Yarders, a younger recruit who followed after Anderson like a dog, opened the bedroom door. "Oh my god," he breathed.

Sherlock could forgive him his dramatics, as he and John probably made quite the sight.

Donavan edged the younger man out of the door, took one look, then bellowed over her shoulder, "Lestrade, he's in here!" Her gaze darted between John lying prone on the bed and Sherlock resting limply in his chair, and for a brief moment a foreign touch of concern lit her expression. "Come quick!"

And then Lestrade was striding into the room, his usual confidence pushing him right through the door, but he paused once he saw what was inside. "Sherlock," he began in that tone of voice he always used when he thought the detective was just putting him on. "What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" He practically ran to John's side, taking a quick pulse, then dashed over to Sherlock and did the same. Over his shoulder he shouted, "Someone call an ambulance!"

Donavan whipped out a cellphone to do just as ordered, and that's when Sherlock panicked. They couldn't move John, it was too dangerous now; if there had ever been any opportunity at all, it was long gone. He had to make them stop, had to get the Yarders to leave before they compromised the situation any further. His legs felt hollow and insubstantial, but he managed to stand.

Lestrade's eyes widened as he watched the shaky climb upright. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

The detective shook his head woozily. "No hospitals," he said as loudly as he could, which, under the circumstances, wasn't very loud at all.

The DI rolled his eyes and began as though he was addressing a toddler, "Do you really think-"

But Sherlock's thoughts had fled him completely and he was taken over by a foreign instinct. The world tilted crazily, bleeding red as anger built up in place of reason. He balled his fist, took a step forward, and punched Lestrade.

* * *

Mycroft stared at him patiently from across the room, but Sherlock refused to repent. As far as he was concerned, this whole episode amounted to kidnapping and forced incarceration. It was his right to express his displeasure at the general state of affairs; namely how quick paramedics were to use completely unnecessary sedatives, how Lestrade had no right to strong-arm him into an ambulance, and how the hospital staff wrongfully assumed it would be a good idea to separate him from John. Admittedly, he might have gotten a little over-zealous in his number of disgruntled texts, but that didn't justify calling his brother.

Mycroft started tapping an idle rhythm with one foot, the very picture of unhurried authority.

It irritated Sherlock so thoroughly that he couldn't help but snapping. "When can I see John?"

His brother considered it for a long moment. "I'm not sure you're ready yet," he replied calmly, probably just to be annoying.

"You can't withhold my flatmate," the younger man sighed angrily.

Mycroft merely gave him an urbane smile.

"I did what I had to," Sherlock explained, the closest he would ever come to apologizing, not that he felt there was anything to apologize for.

"But not what you _should_ have," his brother pointed out carefully, knowing full well that this was a conversation they'd had before and would probably have again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's hardly news, Mycroft. When have I ever done what you thought I should?"

"I'm just asking you to exercise some caution," Mycroft replied, finally, blessedly, standing to leave. "For John's sake, if not for your own."

Guilt was already eating away at him, and Mycroft's parting shot did not help matters. It wasn't often that Sherlock failed in a task he had set out for himself, but he had to admit that was what he'd done. Somehow, despite all his meticulous thoughts and careful deductions, he'd made all the wrong decisions, and that was a bitter truth to contend with. If it hadn't been for Lestrade's timely appearance the situation could have gotten so much worse, and it had already been on the brink of shattering. Sherlock's mood spiraled with these thoughts, self-recrimination and guilt twining together into something that was so much worse, so much more sickening than even his blackest boredom.

The door opened and closed, admitting John, who looked furtive enough that Sherlock knew he'd just escaped an over-watchful nurse. He was slow to the bedside, his limp making an unnecessary reappearance; he'd clearly lost some weight and his face was ghostly pale, but despite that he still looked better than the last time the detective had seen him.

"All right?" John asked, taking a seat at the foot of the bed.

"After a fashion," Sherlock smiled, unable to say how relieved he was to see his flatmate.

There was a companionable silence after that as they simply enjoyed each other's company. Then, inevitably, the storm broke.

John sighed, clearly unable to stop himself. "Did it ever even occur to you to go to the hospital?"

"I was minimizing our exposure to uncontrolled variables," Sherlock explained, wondering why no one else seemed to understand this point. It wasn't _that_ hard to grasp!

"Is that what this is?" his flatmate asked, surprise in his tone. "A control issue?"

"Don't look at me that way," the detective replied quickly. "I couldn't stand not knowing."

"You couldn't stand not taking matters into your own hands," John accused.

Sherlock shook his head. Despite what everyone thought, that wasn't it at all. "I was helping."

But that was apparently the wrong thing entirely to say. John exploded, "_How could you __**not**__ take care of yourself?_"

How to put it into words? How to express to that Sherlock had felt the same way for the doctor as the doctor did for him? It was an illogical concern that came at the expense of one's own wellbeing, and it could no more be described than it could be denied. At a loss for words, he merely shrugged and replied, "I was worried."

"Obviously," John returned tersely, but something of Sherlock's feelings must have shown in his face, because the older man's anger fled him immediately.

Another silence, only this time the detective's thoughts were firing like mad and there was something he wanted to know, just in case John ever got sick again. "Do you…" he began, but then trailed off, unsure if it would hurt the other man to ask.

But John was having none of it; his curiosity had obviously been piqued. "What?"

"Do you always dream of Afghanistan when you run a fever?" Sherlock asked quietly.

The question disturbed John so much that Sherlock suspected he didn't remember dreaming of it at all. As for him, he would never forget, but he would do his best to help the other man cope.

Unsurprisingly, the doctor shied away from the subject, opting to lighten the mood instead. "You make a lousy nurse," he teased, that reluctant smile of his twitching his lips.

"Yes," Sherlock drawled in what he hoped sounded like good-natured sarcasm, "I think we've established that already."

"Still, you get credit for trying," John assured him in lieu of acknowledging he was grateful. "You do realize I'm going to have to teach you how to recognize when you're out of your depth in these matters, though, right?"

Sherlock's smile bloomed full and real, pleased beyond words that they were back to their usual banter. "As if you could."

* * *

A/N: Sherlock's side was a little more inner-monologue based, for which I apologize, but I didn't want to use too much of the same dialogue twice over. And somehow, despite my trouble writing Sherlock's point of view, this turned out longer than expected.

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Disclaimer: Not mine!


	4. Field Guide

_Field Guide_: John discovers a very curious journal. (Rating: a very soft and undeserved M for perversion; implied Slash, possibly one-sided; takes place at the beginning of The Great Game, but no spoilers.)

* * *

Today was a rare day, John reflected as he ambled about the flat. At this very moment, Sherlock was on his way back from Minsk, which meant John had several hours to himself- he could _tidy_ the home in _peace_. In any other flat, cleaning would happen as a matter of course, but in 221B Baker Street straightening things out was akin to an act of vandalism. Every time John got around to tidying up, Sherlock found a way to distract him- he'd been made the subject of more impromptu and completely pointless experiments than he could count, and all because his flatmate was something of a neurotic hoarder.

He never would have guessed it upon meeting the other man; after all, Sherlock had seemed so calm and neat in his tailored suit. Even seeing the mess of 221B for the first time hadn't clued him in; John had really just assumed that Sherlock was so fanatical about his experiments that he couldn't be bothered to worry about mundane things like order and basic sanitation. And, in a way, that was true, but there was a little _something else_ at work as well: Sherlock was always thinking ahead, and every little piece of debris he picked up had some future purpose, often one that wasn't clear to anybody else. He was really more like a magpie than a hoarder, when John thought about it- Sherlock was just feathering his nest.

Only now the nest was filled to overflowing and could do with a bit of thinning out.

John spent several hours on the kitchen, scrubbing the counters and the refrigerator, throwing things out as he saw fit- he'd gotten used to it by now, but the fact that he had to use bio-hazard bags when cleaning his own flat had been a point of contention for the first few months. In a distant way, he supposed being a doctor made him uniquely prepared to share a kitchen with Sherlock: after getting over the initial shock of finding severed body parts _where they should __**never**__ be_, he found he was clinically unperturbed with disposing of Sherlock's medley of rotting appendages. The only thing he ever left completely alone, aside from a quick dusting, was the chemist's set; no power on God's Earth could make him handle his flatmate's home-brewed concoctions. It was simply a matter of common sense and self-preservation.

Glancing at his watch, John realized he'd spent more time than he should have in the kitchen. Sherlock's flight would land in another hour or two, which didn't leave much time for the front room- he'd long ago accepted that to enter Sherlock's bedroom was to take his own life into his hands, so he no longer bothered to tidy up there. The front room, though devoid of cadaver bits, was in a sorry state, covered as it was by Sherlock's latest project: a further study on book cyphers.

The books were stacked in a mysterious order, creating small towers all throughout the room, and John didn't want to disturb them so much as just get them out of the way. He briefly considered shoving the tomes into his flatmate's room, but he didn't feel like staring down the horrors within today. Instead, stack by stack, he moved them to create a low wall of literature in front of the fireplace- it would have to do, because he was itching to clean off the desk.

He never quite made it there though, because he noticed a forgotten little book under one of the chairs. It was a leather-bound journal that looked as though it had seen its fair share of action; the corners were all worn and the leather was stained, singed, and cracked in several places. And it was familiar, _oh was it familiar_! This was the journal that Sherlock kept in his coat pocket and wrote all manner of mysterious notes in, the journal that he guarded like a secret.

John typically considered himself the kind of man who respected these sort of boundaries, but his flatmate was a hard man to gain insight on and this journal was far too tempting to put down. As he cracked open the cover, he distantly noted that he'd had much better impulse control before meeting Sherlock.

Whatever he'd expected inside was not what greeted him. "_On the Care and Handling of One Doctor John H. Watson_," the arrogant title proclaimed. The first few pages were just an outright litany of abuse to any person who could possibly need such a manual, mixed with an errant and unsettling tone of possessiveness.

It was disturbing, and yet so innately _Sherlock_ to do something as mad as write a field guide on social interaction; John couldn't help but continue to read it.

The first section- it was divided into many topics- read, "_The John to Sherlock Dictionary__: Doctor Watson is socially dichotomous. He often acts as though he wants nothing more than solitude, and yet he craves companionship. He has developed something of a verbal code around this strange behavior, which I have taken the liberty of translating:_

'_I just want a bit of a lie down' translates as 'You are doing something which I find boring, so I shall threaten to leave in order to make you stop'._

'_I'm going out for a walk' translates as 'I'm depressed about the war again, and if you want to stop me from getting even more depressed you'd better hurry up and get your coat'._

'_I'm going down to the pub, do you want to come along? First pint's on me' translates as 'I don't care whether you want a drink or not, I just don't want to go alone'._

'_Leave (insert name of a Yarder) alone' translates as 'I find your mockery both true and amusing, but I'm too polite to admit it. Please continue in spite of my token protests'._

_Complete silence, though not necessarily imbued with any particular meaning, is a form of torture that Doctor Watson enjoys inflicting upon those he wants attention from._"

Well, John reflected, that explained why Sherlock was constantly looming over his shoulder when he was trying to enjoy a quiet afternoon. He'd always just assumed it was a mild form of hyperactivity, not that his flatmate had turned their interactions into some kind of secondary language.

"_A very particular problem__: On occasion, though the instances are growing less frequent, Doctor Watson suffers intense night-terrors, a brief relapse from his ever fading Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He tends to wander the flat aimlessly after such occurrences, exhibiting symptoms of self-imposed insomnia. The best course of action is to slip a sleeping aid into the Doctor's habitual tea, though this can be difficult, as he is surprisingly vigilant to such matters, making one wonder if he has not had to fend off drugging attempts before. It is wisest to let him start his tea, to ascertain that it has not been tampered with, then to drug it approximately halfway through as he will have quite let his guard down by then._"

Words simply failed John at this point. Of course, he'd caught Sherlock trying to drug him on more than one occasion, but he hadn't realized that the younger man had worked out a system for it. The only cheerful thought in all this was now that he knew, he could be extra vigilant.

"_The outbursts of a lonely man__: Doctor Watson actively seeks company. As a man recovering from the brutalities of war, this is an acceptable behavior. It is not quite as acceptable, however, when he already __**has**__ company, namely mine. But Doctor Watson is possessed of a strange compulsion to ingratiate himself to the female of the species. In many cases, it is simply best to lead him away from temptation by keeping him busy; this tactic does not always work, however._

_Which brings me to Sarah._

"_Sarah__: An extraneous factor that could not be foreseen and did not come to my attention until it far too late to remove her from the Doctor's graces. Subtle, verbal manipulations will not turn him away from her, so the best course of action is to minimize the amount of unsupervised time they spend together._"

This was certainly nothing new. John had known for a while that Sherlock was jealous of the time he spent with Sarah. It was a little tragic really, because it was another sign that the consulting detective had had nothing approaching a normal friendship in his life. If it wasn't so quietly pathetic, John might have been angry at Sherlock's manipulations, but as it stood he knew he simply had to ease the younger man into understanding and coping with those jealous impulses.

"_Clothing__: Doctor Watson is rarely adventurous when it comes to what he wears, preferring instead to don what he deems comfortable. While this is an admirable sentiment, the result is hardly appealing. However, the Doctor will wear much more flattering clothes if you make his jumpers in some way inaccessible, either through their destruction or outright removal_."

Lately, John had been forced to reacclimate to the chilly and damp London weather as whole swaths of his wardrobe went missing. He'd been fairly certain it was Sherlock doing it, but he'd never had any proof or idea of motive. Knowing wasn't exactly a boon but, then, being forced to buy newer, nicer clothes hadn't been a horrible thing either. In a strange, roundabout kind of way, he really ought to thank his madman of a flatmate; if it hadn't been for Sherlock, he never would have updated his wardrobe and, Lord knows, the new shirts had done wonders for his relationship with Sarah.

To this point in the journal John had been indulgent, accepting even; content to merely see the world through Sherlock's eyes. But the next section forced him to react. He felt his face heating as his eyes flew over the words, felt his pulse pick up speed as he processed what had been written.

"_On matters of fellatio and sexual intercourse__: What follows is not first hand experience, but merely observation; experiments should be in order soon, however._"

He had to stop there; whatever followed would make him burst a vein. Thoughts flashed through his head, each more fevered than the last: Sherlock had watched him, spied on his time with Sarah, thought to experience it himself. A jumble of emotions lodged itself in John's throat, and he was just about to work through it when his flatmate made a poorly timed appearance.

Sherlock stood in the hallway, his head cocked to the side as he slipped his coat off. His pale eyes darted around the room, taking in what had been moved and the fact that John was looking apoplectic while staring at the journal. Cautiously, he moved into the room, slipping the book out of John's hand and back into his coat. "You're angry about the clothes, aren't you?" he asked, unusually subdued. "If it appeals to your sense of compassion at all, I had them donated."

"_You_-" John blustered, face heating further. "_**You**_-"

"I?" Sherlock mocked impatiently.

John shot out of his chair, making a reach for his own coat. He had to get out for a few minutes, had to think, had to _decide_. "As usual, Sherlock, you've done something completely unacceptable, and now I have to figure out what to do about it."

"Ah," a knowing and entirely sinister smile curled the younger man's lips, "this is about the sex."

John rubbed at his eyes in frustration. "How could you _even think_ it was okay-"

"You never said it wasn't," Sherlock cut him off, obviously banking on his lack of social graces to get him through the argument. "You should just be grateful that I didn't think to include photographs or drawings, as I do with my other field guides."

"You're other…?" John's mouth fell open; the thought of it was simply too much. He had to get away, _now_. His last thought before slamming out of the flat was how difficult life was going to be now that he he knew Sherlock Holmes was an unashamed voyeur and pervert.

* * *

A/N: Woo, update in record time!

As many of you have probably guessed, I'm just an American trying my very best to replicate British syntax. And I'm probably butchering it, so I apologize deeply.

Please Review!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything from BBC's Sherlock.


	5. Regret and Other Mistakes

_Regret and Other Mistakes_: John challenges Sherlock when he really should have known better. (Rating: M; Slash.)

* * *

They'd had rows before, of course; it was nearly impossible for two so very different men to live together without a few terse words every now and again. This was different though, this was the kind of anger that made you want to screw your whole face up and scream, and it was coming from Sherlock who was usually so _above_ the banalities of emotion.

"Did it ever occur to you that I would want you here this evening?" the dark-haired man seethed, pacing the length of the front room like a caged animal.

John just stood in the hallway, feeling wearier than usual. The minute he'd come home from his date with Sarah, Sherlock had attacked him. He'd known that the younger man didn't agree with John's decision to date, hated the time the doctor spent away with all the petulance of a spoiled child, but some perverse part of him had enjoyed watching the younger, aloof man squirm. Usually, he would relish these all too human outbursts from his flatmate, only tonight the other man was visibly angry and John was already drained from fighting with Sarah. Tonight, his temper was too close to the surface.

He snapped at the accusation, an instant sneer curling his lips, "Yeah, well, you can't get everything you want, Sherlock."

Sherlock stilled, his face going blank, and it was at that moment John realized this was a challenge he would later come to regret issuing.

* * *

For the first week after that, John walked around as though waiting for an explosion to go off, but Sherlock acted as if the incident had never happened. Parts of John were grateful for this reprieve as it gave him time to patch things up with Sarah, but other parts of him were deeply suspicious. It wasn't like Sherlock to simply give up on something- what was he planning?

"You're being paranoid," Sarah told him plainly.

"No. This isn't normal for him; he's up to something," John shook his head. "You don't know what it's like living with him."

"Sometimes I feel like I do," Sarah replied sourly, "I certainly hear enough about him."

He suppressed a sigh. "Don't start that again-"

"John," she interrupted him warningly, "it's not healthy, the way you're going on about this. Your whole world revolves around Sherlock, and I worry that you're losing sight of everything else. It's all well and good to play detective, but not at the expense of a _real_ life."

He knew this was a conversation they'd had more than once and that no one could win; he knew that he should just walk away, but he was tired and edgy and his mouth shot off without stopping for permission. "Real life? You mean sitting in a cramped office, listening to eighty year-olds tell me I've under diagnosed their cold? Or how about getting stiffed for change at the grocer's by a bloody machine? Sitting in my flat, reminiscing about things that can never be changed? That's not the life I want or need." He ran a had over his eyes. "I don't play at detective; I take the opportunity to save lives and bring murderers to justice. _That_'s real, Sarah."

She gave him a dead-eyed stare. "Then what are you here for, John?"

The question echoed around his thoughts, leaving him with the sinking feeling that he had an answer but didn't want to acknowledge it.

* * *

The next day found John just a hairsbreadth edgier, and seriously questioning his relationship with Sarah. It also found him in a pub which, by coincidence, happened to be one of the favorite haunts of Sergeant Sally Donavan.

He liked Sally. She was gruff and a little mean from her time on the job, but she had a good sense of humor and cared more than she let on. And she liked him, in a 'business friends' sort of way.

"John?" she asked, approaching him with a cocktail in hand. "What're you doing here?"

He was stewing fairly deep in anger at that point, so it took a decent amount of effort to keep from snarling. Instead, he snapped, "It's a pub, Sally, what do you think I'm doing?"

She raised a dark brow, a comeback springing to her lips instantly, "Going on your tone, I'd say menstruating."

And just like that, John's anger fled him. "Sorry, I don't mean to be rude," he apologized, gazing morosely at his latest pint.

"I don't take offense," she shook her head, sitting down next to him. "Living with someone like Sherlock Holmes, you're bound to be tense more days than not."

He didn't want to talk about it, didn't even want to think about it anymore, but he was pretty deep in his cups and he'd apparently lost control of his mouth a few drinks ago. "I'm at my limit, and I've got no idea how to fix this."

"What's he done now?" Sally asked resignedly.

"Nothing," he replied in exasperation. "That's the trouble: he isn't doing _anything_."

Her brow furrowed. "I don't follow."

"We had an argument a week ago, and he's acting as though he's forgotten all about it," John explained, his frustration clear.

"He does that," she reminded him gently. "You said so in your blog- 'deletes' everything he doesn't find useful to his detecting. Besides, it was a week ago."

"Doesn't matter," he shook his head. "If there's one thing I've learned about Sherlock it's that he can't help but push at people's boundaries." He took a pull from his beer, continuing in a low tone, "He wouldn't have forgotten this; it's too good of a chance for him to make me uncomfortable."

"I warned you off him, didn't I?" Sally reminded him. And, for a moment, it seemed as though she was going to leave it at that, but some foreign sense of compassion obviously seized her. With a sigh, she asked, "So what's this really all about then?"

John considered his words carefully. It was difficult to explain what was wrong without making both him and Sherlock sound completely dysfunctional. "He's never really had a friend before, not one that he actually wants to spend time with," he replied after a few moments. "I'm a novelty to him, a commodity he no longer wants to do without. He makes demands on my time that no sane person would even suggest. Normally, I wouldn't complain- my life's a bit on the dull side as it is…"

She looked as though she knew where this was heading. "But?"

"Sarah," John sighed. "He sees her as competition. And no matter what I do, I can't make him understand that me being involved with her makes it necessary to spend time away from him."

"Maybe," Sally frowned, fiddling with her cocktail glass, "he doesn't understand romantic attachment?"

"Trouble is, he does," the doctor shook his head. "Better than he ever lets on. And that adds a whole new shade to this problem."

"You think he's attracted to you?" she asked him quietly, but there was no real surprise in her tone.

"Not sure," he shrugged. "But it would make sense, if you think about- me being Sherlock's first real emotional attachment in years."

Sally hummed an agreement, then asked, "What does Sarah think about all this?"

"At the moment?" John shrugged, feeling a headache coming on. "Who knows?"

"Oh?" she cooed, a slight smile tugging at her lips. "Having a bit of a domestic?"

He frowned at her, not finding it amusing in the least. His social life was in complete shambles, and it was all Sally could do not to laugh at him. "Thanks to Sherlock," he replied grimly.

"He talked to her?" she guessed.

"No," John shook his head, "but apparently she feels that I do little more than talk about him, that I just wait around for him, willing to drop whatever I'm doing if he calls."

"Well, it's true," Sally chuckled.

"I know," he sighed. "That's the problem. I want to be mad at Sarah for saying so, but I can't really deny it, now can I?" It was a hell of a problem, too, to be torn between two so very essential people. Sherlock gave him all the adventure and excitement he'd been missing, and Sarah gave him the affection and physical contact he craved; he couldn't do without one or the other, yet they both seemed determined that he should have to choose between them.

"Seems to me," Donavan interrupted his inner ramblings, "that you need to worry less about what _he's_ thinking and more about what _you_ are. Would it bother you if Sherlock took Sarah's place? Would you miss her if he did or just find it easier to have a sex life?"

It was a disturbingly simple solution to his problem. He'd considered it before, of course, but it was hard to read his flatmate's possessive behavior. He was never sure if making an overture would be understood or even wanted. For all he knew, Sherlock was completely asexual and capable of nothing more than a platonic friendship.

Then again- and maybe it was just the beer talking- John would never know unless he tried.

"I'm not _recommending_ you take things up with the freak," Sally continued, "we all know there's a world of problems that would come about from it. _But_ if you're always going to be hanging on his every move anyway, what difference does it make? Did you ever stop to think that, maybe, you're on the wrong side of the relationship?"

That was just it, wasn't it? In most ways, their relationship already resembled dating. Nearly everyone who met them thought they were involved- in fact, Mrs. Hudson had bets going with both Angelo and the landlady next door as to when the two of them would admit they were going out. Really, when John thought about it, the only thing he was getting from Sarah that he wasn't getting from Sherlock was sex.

That thought made him uncomfortable. Not the thought of sex with Sherlock- although he'd never actively thought about having sex with another man before. No, the thought of Sarah, because he finally couldn't escape it any more. He'd been using her for a taste of something normal and to fill in the gaps that Sherlock had left behind. Sarah was beautiful and loving woman, and he enjoyed their time together, but he had to admit that it probably wouldn't bother him at all if Sherlock took her place.

It was a revelation that was both late in coming and not really a revelation at all. Still, it made John feel a little better to have things sorted out. Now his only problem was approaching Sherlock about it.

* * *

Several hours later, John walked through the front door of 221B, his nerves stretching tight as he climbed the stairs. In the end, he'd decided it would simply be easier to kiss Sherlock and wait for a reaction, that way he couldn't mince words and wouldn't have to worry that his flatmate would misunderstand him. Didn't put him at ease though; fear of rejection still made him feel like he was heading off to battle.

The front room looked as it always did: an absolute disaster with Sherlock sitting at it's epicenter. And Sherlock, well, he looked as he always did, too: neat and dark and just the tiniest bit expectant. It occurred to John that the man was waiting for him, that somehow his flatmate _knew_ what he'd planned, but then that was the curse of living with someone so clever. Those pale, all-seeing eyes studied him with the curiosity of someone watching a caged animal- appreciative, but wondering what would happen when the animal broke loose.

"You're home late," Sherlock observed lowly, his voice deep and smooth. That dark baritone had always sent something vibrating in John, he'd just hesitated to put a name to it. Now he knew, now he couldn't ignore.

He didn't respond, didn't think he had the strength to form any words. Instead, he approached Sherlock, only hesitating slightly when the younger man stood. But the hesitation soon faded away, and John slipped into that curious calm that came over him when he was firing a gun: his breathing slowed, his limbs went steady, and his mind emptied of everything but his target. There was no time for panic, no reason for panic; he had one objective, one goal, and he would complete it with all the precision of the soldier and doctor he'd once been.

John kissed Sherlock.

It was a little awkward at first given their height difference and the fact that he'd never thought he would kiss another man, but Sherlock's lips were soft and pleasant, and the embrace soon evened out.

They pulled apart, Sherlock's eyes narrowing as a dark brow rose. His hands, thin but deceptively strong, moved to John's shoulders, griping him loosely. "Declaration or experiment?"

"Excuse me?" John blinked, his calm fleeing him. Objective complete, but now he had to make sense of it- was that kiss worth the life they had already built together? His mind was understandably elsewhere, but when the other man's words finally sank in, he had to fight down a blush. "Little bit of both."

A smile tugged at the younger man's lips. "Conclusions?"

"I don't really have any yet," John replied, flustered.

Sherlock's hands performed an intricate dance, one slipping to his flatmate's waist as the other curled around his jaw. Strong fingers tipped John's chin up as the taller man murmured, "Let me help you decide."

This kiss was different. It was intense and consuming, passionate and just a little bit wild. Sherlock's lips worked powerfully over his own, guiding them away from the chaste embrace of earlier into something new and addictive. Their bodies strained together, closing the meager distance between them, a fire lighting between the two men.

John let his thoughts slip away, let his worry die. This kiss, this single embrace put to rest every question he'd had. Yes, he fancied Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock fancied him. Yes, sex was likely, and they would probably both enjoy the hell out of it.

The detective, sensing John's brief inattention, redoubled his efforts. His lips pulled possessively at the other man's mouth, coaxing deviously until he'd gained entrance. And that was really all he needed, because once that gate was open they were both fighting to one up each other and the doctor couldn't spare attention to anything else for fear of losing.

They broke apart with no clear victor, each trying to catch their breath and seize up their opponent. This was a critical moment in John's mind- whoever launched an attack first had the upper hand, and he knew it needed to be him. If things with Sherlock progressed, if they really entered into a romantic relationship, what few barriers the detective had allowed him would be ruthlessly torn down. Without those barriers Sherlock would control everything, unless John established some amount of dominance _now_. He didn't want to be master of the relationship, he just wanted to make it clear that he had to be the detective's equal in this matter.

The soldier in John reared his head with one intent: victory. Bypassing thought, just in case Sherlock was being his usual observant self, John hooked his leg behind the other man's knees and sent them both tumbling to the ground. It was the perfect position really, because it eliminated the height problem and put John squarely on top of his flatmate.

Sherlock didn't even have the decency to look surprised. A wicked smile curled his flushed lips, "Bit eager, are we?" He stretched, a calculated and purely sadistic move that ground their hips together.

"Fuck," John hissed, nearly doubling over. And that one moment of inattention, of promised pleasure, was what the other man had been waiting for. The world spun in a blur and John suddenly found himself on his back, Sherlock's taller frame pinning him to the ground.

"Are you sure about this?" Sherlock asked, his tone gentle even as he continued to grind their hips together. "You won't regret it tomorrow?"

"I'm regretting it right now," John growled, impatience fueling his building desire, "by tomorrow I'll be reconciled."

Sherlock sat back a little, just a little, but it was enough to get a hand between them. His clever fingers began to trace the shape of John's eager member through his trousers. "I'd hate to get between you and Sarah," he murmured, not even bothering to disguise his glee.

John didn't answer for a long moment; too long, apparently, because the detective's fingers stopped. His hips bucked involuntarily, but he found himself with no where to go. "You're a bastard," he snapped.

"Indeed," Sherlock smiled, giving one brief stroke before pausing again. "Still…?"

"There is no still, Sherlock," John replied, his brain slowly shutting off as his world narrowed to the simple want of pleasure. "I think things have gone about as far as they can."

His fingers began moving again, undoing the doctor's fly to delve for the organ hidden underneath. "Not quite," he smiled, his thumb flirting with the head of John's cock.

John's world exploded, and just when he was starting to make sense of things, he felt a mouth close around the crest of his desire. He didn't last long. How could he? Sherlock _watched_ him, those pale eyes trained to his face as that dark head bobbed along his length. How was he meant to hang on while those eyes spoke of wicked promises; while Sherlock exploited everything he knew about male pleasure; while the devil himself played his body like a bloody violin?

He came violently, a nearly inaudible scream rushing from his lips. It was the single most painful and pleasurable moment of his life; it eclipsed every fumble and every thrust of every relationship he'd ever been in. It was terrifying and wonderful, and the man who'd done it to him was biting at his hip and _smirking_. So, of course, John felt obliged to reciprocate.

Getting Sherlock under him was easy- mostly because the detective let him. The hard part was in figuring out what to do. He decided to start at the neck, flicking out licks and kisses, sucking here and biting there until the man underneath him bucked. Quick hands opened Sherlock's shirt, revealing the man's pale chest as John quested south. He concentrated on one spot at a time, always staying long enough to frustrate the other man before moving on. John took his time, exploring and torturing, his every move both a thanks and revenge for the magic the younger man had worked earlier. By the time his lips finally wrapped around Sherlock, the detective was already growling his name like a mantra.

A silence followed their frantic coupling, hushed but for the echoes of moans and screams. John was just starting to get the slightest bit uneasy when Sherlock wrapped an arm around him.

"Sarah?" he asked, his deep voice vibrating through John, who was still more or less on top of him.

John considered for a moment. "She's a wonderful woman, but she wanted more from me than I was able to give her. She wanted all of me, even the parts that hang on you and, well…"

"They're mine." Sherlock drew him closer.

"She didn't understand that," the doctor shrugged, laying his head down on his new lover's chest. "Hell, I didn't understand it until Sally pointed it out."

"Donavan?" For once, Sherlock sounded surprised.

"Yeah," John couldn't help but chuckle as they both took a moment to marvel at the thought of the prickly sergeant giving relationship advice.

"You'll have to break it off with Sarah, you know," the detective told him firmly.

"I already did," John sighed. He'd wanted to enter into things with a clear conscience, and the revelation that he'd been using Sarah as a surrogate hadn't felt right. "Granted, I might have to do it again, because she _knew_ I'd just come from the pub."

"She also _knew_ it was about me, so what difference does it make if you were sober or drunk?" There was a careless drawl in Sherlock's tone, but his other arm came up to pin the doctor to him. He was clearly not letting go, especially not for Sarah.

Another silence reigned, comfortable as they explored the new physicality of their relationship. Of course, silences in 221B were always short lived. It was John who interrupted it this time. "You did nothing all week; you never do nothing," he said accusingly, lifting his head to stare at the younger man. "You were playing mind games with me, weren't you?"

"Only a little," Sherlock replied, ducking his head to taste the doctor's neck. "I knew you would do all the work yourself. It was just a matter of time before you acted."

John fought down a moan. "I thought you considered psychology a soft science."

"I'm not above using it when it gets me what I want," Sherlock breathed out in triumph, nipping at his throat.

* * *

A/N: This all started from a line I pulled out of one of the other stories, and it turned into a complete monster. I'm not entirely thrilled, as it's been a long time since I've written romance.

Please Review!

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock, and I'm not making any money off these stories.


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